


make something up

by waferkya



Category: The Resident (TV 2018)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 08:32:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15020720
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/waferkya/pseuds/waferkya
Summary: To be sure he would show up for their first night out since forever, Priya picked a nice, big club not too far from the hospital. They're on the terrace now, and a little off into the distance, on the other side of the highway, Chastain is lit up like a white-lights-only Christmas tree.





	make something up

  
Devon has had great expectations about his first day as a doctor ever since he was a mopey, acne-ridden fifteen-year-old eyeing up med school brochures on career day. Four hours into his actual, real-life first day as a doctor, and he's so overwhelmed that he would be surprised if he made it back home alive at the end of his shift. So, expectations are running pretty low at the moment and Devon wants to punch his teenage self in the face. Why would he think that becoming a doctor was a good idea? Seriously. Why.

"Are you asleep on your feet or zoning out on me?" the Bane of Devon's Existence asks; and now Devon wants to punch himself in the face twice. He's always been smart, polite and well-spoken: from kindergarden to swimming lessons to college, every single teacher he's ever had has always loved him. Except this one, who also perhaps is the most crucial, the only one who can actually hold his career hostage. His resident. Conrad Hawkins seems programmed to be the exact opposite of Devon at everything. And very loud about it, too.

"Sorry. No, I just zoned out for a second," Devon says, feeling his cheeks go bright red. He can't screw this up.

Conrad clicks his tongue. So rude, but Devon has to win him over, so he can't really cringe. "Pity. You'll find out that being able to sleep standing up is a useful skill to have."

He doesn't even wait until the sentence is finished before walking away, so Devon has to run after him a little, and it looks like he really wanted to catch the ending of that insult. The nurses around him are all smiling. They know. They're absolutely in to the joke with Conrad, and the punchline is Devon's future. This is great.

*

"Being a doctor sucks," Devon declares, and it's two weeks later and this is the first time he says it out loud to another person. He's also tipsy on crappy beer, just enough that staying balanced on top of his high stool is becoming increasingly harder. He hasn't fallen off yet. It counts as a win, and it's probably the first he's had in a while.

To be sure he would show up for their first night out since forever, Priya picked a nice, big club not too far from the hospital. They're on the terrace now, and a little off into the distance, on the other side of the highway, Chastain is lit up like a white-lights-only Christmas tree. Devon chose a seat where he has his back to the building, but he can still see its glimmery shine in any reflective surface around him, including Priya's pretty necklace. Once in a while, an ambulance passes by and the sound of the siren mixed to the music coming from the dancing room downstairs still manages to tie his insides into a knot.

Priya, who is wonderful and amazing and perfect and Devon should absolutely fall in love with her except he can't because he's so, so very gay–Priya puts her impeccably manicured hand over his arm and gives him a small smile.

"I know, sweetheart," she says, in her incredible accent that should make everything she says sound like rough sex on a rainy day, or at the very least, like making out on a ferris wheel. Priya sees the way Devon is staring and tips her eyebrows up a little, "Are you thinking about fucking my accent again?"

"Sorry," Devon says with a smirk. He's not entirely sorry. He's a bad boy tonight. He's eyeing the bowl of peanuts in the middle of their tiny round table. He's very hungry. The promise of salt and crunch is to him what civilization must've been for Robinson Crusoe. He read that in middle school, by the way; always the teacher's pet. Priya puts her hand over the bowl.

"No, you're on a shitty food ban," she reminds him.

"That is the worst, most awfulest ban," Devon grumbles, although he knows it really isn't. His first two weeks as a doctor have devastated his social life, his energy levels, his previously unfazed ability to face stress; but the toughest hit was to his stomach, and his entire nutrition system, really. He's a cooking nerd, for fuck's sake. In college, he was the one with the collection of tupperware who experimented with impossible ways to cook exotic food using only a microwave and an electric kettle. Everyone remembers the Night of Dorm Room Tamales. They were glorious. There was salmon involved.

And now, Devon doesn't even have the time to indulge in the luxury of pouring milk and cereal into a bowl in the morning. Most days, he just throws a drinkable yogurt into his bag and hopes the lactic enzymes and artificially added vitamins will be enough to keep scurvy at bay. Sometimes he even remembers to actually drink the fucking thing.

Pre-packaged cafeteria lunches are surprisingly bad, too. High in fat, salt and everything any nutrition doctor will tell you to stay away from. Devon tried to complain, once; he just wanted a salad that wasn't maybe so dronwed in twelve different dressings and cheeses and juicy burger bits. The lady at the counter actually took the time to explain to him that most of their clients are friends and family of patients: therefore, cafeteria food is meant to be comfort food. There's nothing comforting in a skinny quinoa whatever with a side of Omega-threes. Devon knows she was right.

So, he's eating junk food the way he supposes the average American teenager destined to morbid obesity does. He has a rash just under his arm he doesn't want to think about. He doesn't sleep well at night, and they made a mistake on his last paycheck so he might not even be able to afford this night out, let alone rent, which is due in three days.

Yeah. Being a doctor really sucks.

"How's your boss?" Priya asks, because sometimes she finds it funny to just pick at his wounds.

"Still brilliant and insufferable," Devon has to admit. It's true. He could use other words, maybe go into some more details, but he knows that Priya can see all of that on his face. Conrad is extraordinary; Devon wasn't wrong: he is the most important teacher he's had, and probably ever will. And he still hates Devon, or at the very least, badly tolerates his highly educated presence.

"Good to know. My boss is still an idiot arsehole," Priya says, taking a long pull from her beer glass. They're draining the pitch very quickly; Devon doesn't go for a refill because he's sensing a switch to vodka in his future. Maybe even tequila, if Priya's up to it. The music from downstairs has turned mellowy and electronic. The club is not openly gay but, when he was carrying up their beer, lost in the crowd of uninteresting straightness Devon noticed some different looks and touches, and even a couple of guys making out and grinding in plain sight. No fight has yet erupted, so he figures the clientele must be friendly enough.

Priya tells him about her crappy day, and they go back and forth a little, complaining about jobs and people and dreaming of retirement and maybe finding a Freaky Friday machine and swap their lives for a while. Priya thinks she would make an amazing doctor. Devon agrees. They graduate to vodka tonics to celebrate. Priya goes to the bar to get them: she's petite and gorgeous and it'll take her no time to get the bartender's attention.

She walks back in three minutes flat, and they clink their drinks together in perfect Sex and the City fashion, except none of them is actually having sex at the moment, which is insane (for Priya, because, c'mon, look at her), and Atlanta is not really as glamorous as, say, any other place in the States. Devon has barely wet his lips when, over the rim of his glass, he sees Jude Silva coming up the hole in the ground that leads to the stairs, looking around a little excitedly, like maybe it's been too long since the last time he went out to a club on Friday night. Devon puts down his drink, and his hand shakes a little, because he knows what's coming next.

"You alright, sweetheart?" Priya asks, because he must've pulled a face like the ghost of Adolf Hitler just showed up to a crowd of clapping enthusiasts.

Devon doesn't answer. His heart knocks exactly twice against his ribcage; he's halfway through a strong, healthy systolic squeeze, when an artfully tousled head of blond hair pokes up from the stairwell, making something squeak and then get very loose inside Devon's chest. Conrad in civvies is a sight that should be up there with triple-bacon cheeseburgers and snorting asbestos as a health hazard. The first couple of buttons on his shirt are undone, coyly open to reveal a collection of metal pendants and leather strips around the perfectly biteable column of his neck. His sleeves are rolled too, just above the elbow as usual: Conrad is not blind, and he's not an idiot, so he knows how to capitalize on the underwear-model definition of his forearms, on the caduceus tattooed in stark black against his pale skin. Black jeans that are comfy but not shapeless and well-worn sneakers in a stupidly cheeky turquoise color complete the picture, but soon Devon realizes that something else is stealing the show entirely.

It's Conrad's expression. He's coming up fairly behind Jude. When he reaches the top step, and Jude looks at him as if to say _took you long enough_ , Conrad looks down and rubs the back of his head. He actually looks embarrassed, uncomfortable. Devon has never, ever seen him like this before. Jude claps him on the shoulder, _c'mon, shut up, we need a drink or two or twelve_ , and Conrad grins, his cheeks dimpled and his eyes crinkling, and that tiny, intimate little gesture looks a million billion times better than any aurora borealis and any sunset over the pyramids and any long, hot, afterwork shower.

Devon wants to melt into the floor. Priya has followed his stare and she's smiling to herself a little like an apex predator.

"Okay, alright, I see what you see and I like it," she says; Devon turns around with his mouth hanging open because no, this is not happening, she can't hook up Conrad. She doesn't _get to have_ Conrad, she can't, no one can. Devon realizes it's completely irrational, but also: he doesn't give a shit. He's drunk, it's Friday. He doesn't want anyone in the world to lay a hand on Conrad, and he feels like he's perfectly entitled to that wish.

Of course, Jude is one of those people who can sense it when they're being stared at. It's a disgrace. Belatedly, Devon realizes it probably has something to do with, uh, being a Marine. Having fought a war. That kind of thing tends to make people hyper-aware of their surroundings, maybe. The point is, not even five seconds after Priya has commented that she likes what she sees–and that doesn't mean _anything_ , because whatever she thinks she's seeing, it doesn't even begin to encompass all that Conrad Hawkins is and does and represents for humanity, and Devon's head is spinning–Jude turns their way, zeroes in on their table, recognizes Devon's face and smiles like a wolf who just found its way into an unguarded butcher shop.

Conrad looks over, too. He sees Priya first, and doesn't react. Then he spots Devon, and something incredibly cute happens to his face: his lips are pressed to a line like he's trying to bite back a smile, his eyebrows shoot up, and his eyes get crinkled and dark and incredible like they always do when he's preparing a gorgeous insult.

They are walking over. Devon braces himself. Under the table, Priya kicks his shin. He was not bracing for _that_.

"Why is McDreamy coming over? Do you know him?" she whisper-shouts at him, all excited and flustered and a little bit offended that he never mentioned before that they could run into a couple of ridiculously good-looking underwear models he happens to know. It's too late to answer and explain; Jude and Conrad are in their space, and shoulder-to-shoulder in casual clothes with no wailing patient anywhere in sight, they are even more impressive than Devon expected. The Marine Corps sure know how to do their job, whatever their job is.

"Hey," Devon says, lame and dumb. He even waves his hand a little, for Chrissake, he needs to keep it together.

"Hey," Jude nods back, except he's already looking at Priya and taking her hand, introducing himself with a dash of a rough drawl Devon has never heard from him before. "I'm Dr. Jude Silva, miss...?"

"Priya Nair," she says, all but batting her eyelashes up at him. Devon stares at the exchange for a second and then he punches what little knowledge he has of Grey's Anatomy (McDreamy would be the dashing, prince-charming-like male lead, dark hair and blue eyes) together with the National Archives-worth amount of things he knows about Priya's taste in men (tall, built, dark, Southern-style handsome) to realize that, of course, it's Jude that caught her eye. Some fifteen tons of mysterious weight suddenly lift off Devon's lungs, just as Conrad says:

"It's nice to meet you, my name's Conrad," and Devon can see Priya's brain light up in recognition like a summer fair.

"Oh, you're Devon's boss," she says, all wide-eyed and sweet and she's always been so good at playing the part of the naive princess. Conrad ducks his head and laughs, and doesn't try to deny it. Jude puts his elbow on the table and leans in, his t-shirt sleeve stretching over his perfectly muscled biceps.

"Technically, we're all Devon's boss," he says half-cospiratory, and when Priya laughs, Devon can tell she's actually charmed. She can't be blamed.

"So you've heard about us," Conrad says, amused, looking at Devon more than Priya. Devon wants to disappear down his drink, despite the physical limitations of it.

"Only good things," Priya says, ever chivalrous, but from the side-glance she shoots at Devon, he knows she's silently scolding him for never truly going into the detail of the kind of men he works with every day. Devon's pretty sure he only ever talked about the looks of Irving (because one day he decided to shave his beard and only keep a mustache, and that abomination deserved an Eighteen-century-style of description) and maybe a couple of male nurses who have given him _looks_ from time to time (nothing to really call home for, but still).

"I think we need a drink–and you need a refill–before we can go into the detail of those good things Devon's been saying about us," Jude says, grinning with white perfect teeth and irresistible charm. Priya ducks her head and gracefully accepts the offer on Devon's behalf as well.

"It's vodka tonic for us," she says, and Jude nods, then gives Conrad's shoulder a little push and they walk away with the promise of coming back soon.

Devon exhales.

Priya is staring at him like suddenly he's grown a second and third head out of his chest.

"What?" he says, although he already knows exactly _what_.

"Do you know you're making eyes at your boss?" she asks, smirking a little and, wait, no, that's not what Devon thought she'd say.

"What?!"

"Oh my God, you don't know," Priya says, and now she's openly laughing. "Sweetheart, you're adorable."

"First of all, I'm not–I'm not–I don't even know what I want to protest first. Okay, look, I'll protest both things at the same time: I'm not adorable and I'm not making eyes at Conrad. Like. What? You're insane. I'm not," Devon says, talking too fast because hey, let's not forget it: he's drunk. He's been drinking. This is his first beer in weeks, maybe months–no, wait, it's not a beer anymore, there's stronger alcohol involved now. And he hasn't eaten dinner, he lied to Priya about that. Lunch, he's not so sure. He thinks it was today but it might've been yesterday.

"Calm down, Devon, it's alright. I just wanted to make sure," Priya says, candy-sweet. She pats his arm and smiles. "He's very... handsome, is all I'm saying."

"He's the most beautiful man I've ever seen," Devon groans, because it's true, and also: Conrad is the bane of his existence. Has been from day one. "The smartest, too. His job is saving lives, Priya. He's so great. You won't believe how brilliant he is. And kind. And an asshole too, but only to me, you know? Anyway, yeah, he's completely wonderful."

"Oh, honey," she says, the way she sometimes does when Devon's doing something really terrible for his own health. Which, maybe getting drunk and increasingly more aware of the fact he's completely in love with his boss probably is. Terrible, and a guaranteed heartwreck, and all that. Unfortunately, Priya doesn't have the time to give Devon the best advice he'll ever hear: Jude and Conrad are back, carrying drinks. Drinks! Devon's best friend and worst enemy of all time.

"Thanks," Devon says, back to the lame and dumb, when Conrad hands him another overdecorated glass of vodka tonic. Jude got Priya's drink and they're already making conversation about something undoubtedly interesting.

"Are you alright?" Conrad asks, tipping his head to the side and searching Devon's face like he's looking for some sort of clue that he's sick or close to death or whatever. It's the type of scrutiny that will never fail to make Devon's cheek grow hotter and his gaze to drop.

"Yeah, no, fine," he says, sipping from the glass. "I'm just–not sure when's the last time I ate, I guess."

Conrad smiles. Even in the dim, pathetic light of the terrace, he's a magnet for Devon's attention and he can't stop staring.

"You're in for a wild night," Conrad says, his smile turning into a friendly smirk. Devon's throat dries up and he tries very hard not to read anything into Conrad's words. He can't afford to go down the spiral where he thinks Conrad's flirting. That would be very bad, terrible, and something he can't recover from. Especially, because it could cost him his job and his future.

"So wild," he replies without any sort of mirth.

Jude and Priya are now laughing together. They're less than two feet away and they feel so distant they might as well be in a different galaxy. It's useless to look for help from them, then. Devon's in this alone. Fuck it. He's had enough to drink, and the music keeps knocking at the back of his head.

"I think I'm heading downstairs for a bit," he says out loud. He doesn't want it to sound like an invitation, but he doesn't want it to _not_ sound like an invitation, either. He's doing fine. He's doing so very well.

Conrad shoots one quick look across the table, grins, and nods. He downs what's left of his drink and gracefully slides off his own stool.

"Let's go," he says, and heads toward the stairs.

_Fuck_ , Devon thinks: in his own head, it's like a rerun of The King's Speech. _Fuck, fuckity fuck, fuck, fucking shit, shit, fuck._

*

The good thing is, he lost Conrad in the crowd before he could even start dancing. The bad thing is, _he lost Conrad in the crowd before he could even start dancing_. It's not that Devon has that much faith in his own moves; his mother taught him how to waltz when he was a kid, and that's pretty much the only real skill he has on the dancefloor, which is pretty useless when the rhythm is 128bpm and people around you mostly want to grab you and grind. Still, he thinks it would've been nice to be able to stay around Conrad a little longer, even in such a weird, uncomfortable environment. Mostly, Devon is curious as to how they would've approached the entire thing: does Conrad need a wing-partner to work his magic on the ladies?

God, his inner monologue is starting to sound like his father trying to talk like _the youths_ , as he'd say. That's usually a sign that Devon's too dehydrated. Also, he didn't realize he's still on the dancefloor trying to keep up with the music. Fuck. And there's a guy in front of him–who is this person? Is he dancing with Devon? Is he having a seizure? It's hard to say.

Maybe he's sobering up a little, because suddenly he can feel embarrassment creep up his spine like a terrible, slimy hug. Devon squeezes past the hyperactive dancer, and then past another sea of bodies tightly packed together, until he emerges, born again, out into a space where he can actually stand still without touching another human body.

Conrad is nowhere to be found. Devon smothers the disappointment and walks up the stairs that'll take him back to the terrace. The bar is there, and the bar has water, and Devon wants to stop hearing his father's voice inside his head. He sincerely hopes Priya and Jude have left, or at least, that they are making out somewhere discreet; he's not ready for that show yet. He risks a glance at their table, but now it's occupied by another group of people. So, they left. Devon smiles and pulls out his phone to shoot a quick text to Priya, teasing her for disappearing without notice on their night out.

_sorry ur no longer the hottst doctor i kno_ , she texts back almost immediately, followed by a string of junk food emojis from which Devon infers Jude must've looked into her soul and seen a companion for late night crappy snacks. Fuck, he's good.

Devon's not worried, or even overly sad. He's not going to waste a Friday, his night out can begin anew now: he'll find someone to take home, to try and fail at taking his mind off Conrad. He needs water, and another drink. Tequila makes him sloppy; sloppy sounds perfect tonight.

He looks at the bar and, right there and then, time freezes. Conrad is nursing a tumbler of whiskey on the rocks, his head tipped slightly to listen to a stranger whispering in his ear. A tall, broad-shouldered stranger, built like a water polo player, with a trim waist and long-ish black hair tucked in a neat ponytail. There's nothing friendly about the way this guy is leaning into Conrad's personal space; there's nothing platonic about the flirty upturned curve of his smile or in the way he looks at Conrad from under his insanely long lashes.

Devon is about to throw himself off the terrace, because Conrad is apparently flattered and very, very interested in being hit on by another man. Where is this coming from? What's happening? Did he just step into an alternate reality?

Life is so fucking unfair.

Also, Conrad just made eye contact with him from twenty feet away. Devon tries very hard to be invisible; it's probably not working. He makes himself walk up to the bar. He needs water. He also needs to pull himself away from this situation, from this strange world where Conrad Hawkins gets picked up by strange men at clubs. How is this Devon's life?

He gets a tall glass of sparkling water with ice, because he's treating himself, and a redhead across the room pays for his first shot of tequila. Devon is debating getting up and joining his patron when someone slips into the seat next to his, and after two full weeks of work, he doesn't really need to look to know that it's Conrad. It's weird. Devon is now somehow attuned to the shape of Conrad's body hovering just inside his field of vision. But it's more than that; he's used to the way the air is moved by Conrad. He knows exactly the space that Conrad takes up, when he's standing or sitting or just simply existing next to him.

"You having fun?" Conrad asks, with the right amount of humor so that Devon feels pleasantly teased, and not ashamed.

"I'm trying as hard as I can," Devon says, very honestly. "But I don't think it's working?"

Conrad actually laughs out, which is a sound that Devon doesn't get to hear nearly enough. "You don't sound too sure."

Devon shrugs. "I mean. I think I'm pretty drunk, which is, like, okay. And I was dancing, before–and I liked that."

"Yeah, you looked like you were having fun," Conrad says, the happy crinkles around his eyes transforming his entire face into something a lot younger.

"Oh God," Devon groans, and he signals at the bartender for another round because, _oh, God_. "You saw that?"

"Yup," Conrad says, actually popping his p and smirking so hard his lip might split. "It was–"

"Please, don't say cute," Devon practically begs, because his self-esteem is already pretty much in shambles and he can't take one more hit. Conrad shakes his head and smiles to himself.

"No, don't worry. I promise, cute is not what I was thinking," he says, and it takes Devon an embarrassingly long amount of time to realize that, hey, that probably counts as flirting. He blushes, long and hard, and he can feel Conrad's eyes on him.

This is where he starts to think: _if I turn around and he's looking at me, I'll look at him and I'll know if I can lean in and kiss him; of course I'll know. This is one of those things where you just know._ It's a slippery slope, because his eyes are drawn to Conrad like scraps of metal to a magnet. Conrad is looking back. Quiet, and expecting, and just a little bit amused. Devon half-expects to find himself back at the hospital, with a central line to put into a restless patient. Conrad always looks at him in a way that makes him feel valued and challenged, understood and pushed to do better all the time. It's weird to have that sort of expectation thrown at him outside the walls of Chastain, too. It's thrilling. Devon is thrilled. And he knows now that this is his signal. Deep in his gut, there's the adamant certainty that if he shifts his weight to the side and angles his head towards Conrad's, brings his mouth closer to Conrad's, there's not one single thing in the world that'll keep them apart.

Knowing this doesn't automatically mean that Devon is ready to do it. It's a problem he's becoming very familiar with. Just because he knows the exact procedure of a lung transplant, doesn't mean he's going to cut cancer patients's chests open with a cheese knife.

But there must be some measure of justice in the universe, because for the first time in forever, Conrad decides to skip the teachable moment and simply take charge, thank God. Devon thinks he's going to die when Conrad's hand comes up to gently cup the side of his face; and then he thinks he's going to die again when Conrad looks at his mouth then back up to his eyes like he's asking if Devon's sure; and finally, he realizes he's been dead all his life and up until the moment where his head nods his permission without waiting, and he can feel the touch of Conrad's lips on his own and it's tentative, and gentle, and completely breathtaking.

Devon pushes back immediately because this is his one and only chance he'll ever get, so he doesn't want to waste a second. His hands are in Conrad's shirt, and he's completely turned toward him. It sucks, kissing while sitting–he wants to press the entire length of his body against Conrad's, and burn that feeling into his skin. The moment he thinks about it, his feet are already touching the floor.

Surprisingly enough, Conrad follows.

Devon takes half a step back and earns the prize of looking as Conrad's eyes slowly open, and they're darker and unfocused for a moment.

"Hey," Conrad says, his lips already curling up into a grin that Devon absolutely wants to devour.

"Hi," Devon says, as lame and dumb as ever. He lets go of Conrad's shirt and says, "Is this... okay?"

Conrad smirks; he pulls Devon in and this next kiss, it's a little less tender and feels more like a statement. His right hand snakes around Devon's waist, pushing them flush against one another.

This is more than okay.


End file.
